her: small and more pretty than useful, then all of a sudden revealing qualities you’ve never seen before.
When I get back to the camp she’s already taken out the pot, the cooker and the plates. She suggests making up some packet soup and adding a bit of pasta. It would make for a good, sturdy meal, almost a casserole. That sounds like a plan.
But the water won’t boil. The wind gusting in from the sea blows the cooker’s flame sideways and low. We’ve got nothing to protect it from the wind. I try a couple of ad hoc solutions, but the water’s heating up painfully slowly. Eventually a wisp of steam starts emanates from under the lid.
She tears open the packet of soup and hands it to me. I mix the powder into the water. She’s reading the instructions on the packet of pasta. In a mildly bewildered voice she says you should boil it for eight minutes.
Eight minutes!
I wrench the packet of orzo from her hand. Orzo pasta is the size of a grain of rice; it should be cooked in just a few minutes. That’s why I chose it in the first place: the same weight will fit into a smaller space than any other kind of pasta.
Eight minutes.
She might have read that in the supermarket seeing as she likes reading so bloody much.
If we start cooking the pasta in this sort of wind we’ll have run out of gas before reaching Melaleuca. Of course we could just tip it into the boiling soup and turn off the heat, then keep it stewing under the lid. We could wrap the pot inside the sleeping-bag or something. It will cook, given time. I’ve no idea how long it would take, though.
The sky is already a dark evening blue. Night is closing in all around us, and she’s got an imploring look in her eyes. We shouldn’t mess around with the food any more than strictly necessary.
I suggest we leave out the pasta. Let’s have the soup as soup. We can cut some meat from the length of salami. Then a couple of apricots for dessert.
She is quiet for a moment, then nods towards a pile of blackened stones. ‘Couldn’t we build a fire,’ she asks, ‘a real fire that we could cook on?’
Right. According to the guidebook, this camp and tomorrow’s at Deadman’s Bay are the only camps in Southy where you’re allowed to build an open fire at the designated spot.
Then, thrilled at her own powers of observation, she says there should be loads and loads of good dry twigs in the bushes over there.
Heidi
Jyrki runs his hand up and down the trunk of the nearest eucalyptus tree, then scuffs his boot through the thick layer of dried leaves on the ground.
‘Look at that. What’ll happen if even the smallest spark flies into that? What’ll happen in wind like this? And what happens when it spreads to the bush where, as we know, there are loads and loads of good dry twigs?’
The eucalyptus bark, or whatever it should be called, is like sheets of the finest silk paper, layer upon layer. Transparent silvery strips fluttering in the wind, as thin as a breath of air.
‘These trees are so keen to be burnt that they grow their own kindling.’ Looking at them now, it is startlingly clear. Jyrki continues with something approaching admiration in his voice.
‘These trees are full of flammable sap. Beneath this flaky tinder there’s a thick layer of bark protecting the tree growing inside. The eucalyptus is a predator plant, a killer plant. It has adapted to fire, so much so that every now and then it needs to be burnt in order to germinate. But, at the same time, its own flammability makes it a kind of suicide bomber. It’s clearing room for itself. When the forest bums down, the eucalyptus — and only the eucalyptus — —will grow back again, with no competition whatsoever.’
. . . you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once — somewhere —far away — in another existence perhaps .
—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
NEW ZEALAND
Queen Charlotte Track
February
When I get back to the camp she’s already taken out the pot, the cooker and the plates. She suggests making up some packet soup and adding a bit of pasta. It would make for a good, sturdy meal, almost a casserole. That sounds like a plan.
But the water won’t boil. The wind gusting in from the sea blows the cooker’s flame sideways and low. We’ve got nothing to protect it from the wind. I try a couple of ad hoc solutions, but the water’s heating up painfully slowly. Eventually a wisp of steam starts emanates from under the lid.
She tears open the packet of soup and hands it to me. I mix the powder into the water. She’s reading the instructions on the packet of pasta. In a mildly bewildered voice she says you should boil it for eight minutes.
Eight minutes!
I wrench the packet of orzo from her hand. Orzo pasta is the size of a grain of rice; it should be cooked in just a few minutes. That’s why I chose it in the first place: the same weight will fit into a smaller space than any other kind of pasta.
Eight minutes.
She might have read that in the supermarket seeing as she likes reading so bloody much.
If we start cooking the pasta in this sort of wind we’ll have run out of gas before reaching Melaleuca. Of course we could just tip it into the boiling soup and turn off the heat, then keep it stewing under the lid. We could wrap the pot inside the sleeping-bag or something. It will cook, given time. I’ve no idea how long it would take, though.
The sky is already a dark evening blue. Night is closing in all around us, and she’s got an imploring look in her eyes. We shouldn’t mess around with the food any more than strictly necessary.
I suggest we leave out the pasta. Let’s have the soup as soup. We can cut some meat from the length of salami. Then a couple of apricots for dessert.
She is quiet for a moment, then nods towards a pile of blackened stones. ‘Couldn’t we build a fire,’ she asks, ‘a real fire that we could cook on?’
Right. According to the guidebook, this camp and tomorrow’s at Deadman’s Bay are the only camps in Southy where you’re allowed to build an open fire at the designated spot.
Then, thrilled at her own powers of observation, she says there should be loads and loads of good dry twigs in the bushes over there.
Heidi
Jyrki runs his hand up and down the trunk of the nearest eucalyptus tree, then scuffs his boot through the thick layer of dried leaves on the ground.
‘Look at that. What’ll happen if even the smallest spark flies into that? What’ll happen in wind like this? And what happens when it spreads to the bush where, as we know, there are loads and loads of good dry twigs?’
The eucalyptus bark, or whatever it should be called, is like sheets of the finest silk paper, layer upon layer. Transparent silvery strips fluttering in the wind, as thin as a breath of air.
‘These trees are so keen to be burnt that they grow their own kindling.’ Looking at them now, it is startlingly clear. Jyrki continues with something approaching admiration in his voice.
‘These trees are full of flammable sap. Beneath this flaky tinder there’s a thick layer of bark protecting the tree growing inside. The eucalyptus is a predator plant, a killer plant. It has adapted to fire, so much so that every now and then it needs to be burnt in order to germinate. But, at the same time, its own flammability makes it a kind of suicide bomber. It’s clearing room for itself. When the forest bums down, the eucalyptus — and only the eucalyptus — —will grow back again, with no competition whatsoever.’
. . . you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once — somewhere —far away — in another existence perhaps .
—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
NEW ZEALAND
Queen Charlotte Track
February
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